


The Tattoo

by Ewebie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A single military misstep can lead to a terrible catastrophe if not controlled. But with the chaos of the annual Tattoo, can Sherlock unravel events already in motion?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A More Dreadful Record of Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Alright... I'm taking a huge risk doing this, so I beg for your patience, understanding, and feedback? I'm taking down the treatment portion, because I've written a good chunk of this. But it's a work in progress... a HUGE work in progress. Because the chapters are so big, the updates will be slow. Any comments, suggestions, constructive (please) criticisms are always welcome. But here we go... We're starting this one up. (and it is a multi-chapter work... it just won't show that on Ao3 until I put up the next chapter) Enjoy!  
> x  
> ~Ewebie

Taylor started awake. She hadn’t been sleeping well anyway, and the light chime of her mobile was enough to wake her. She swept the hair back from her face and squinted at the screen. _Meeting. 5 minutes._

She glanced at the clock and groaned. It was three in the morning. Didn’t Priest have anything better to do at this time of day? I mean, Jesus, she was only back in this fucking motel for three hours now, and it had taken two weeks to clean up his last job. She threw back the blankets, and her feet had just hit the carpet when there was a knock on the door.

Priest didn’t wait to be invited in; he pushed through the partially opened door. Taylor shrugged and gave a sweeping gesture, “Come on in.”

“James, I need this done.” He slapped a small folder onto the side table and crossed his arms.

Taylor frowned. He wouldn’t even hand it to her. God, he was a piece of work. She snatched the folder off the table and started flipping through it. Cover ID, target, dates and times. “This is tomorrow,” she objected.

“Actually, it’s today.” He gave her a nod. “Do your job.”

She squinted at the papers, “But, but this is. Sir, this isn’t a quick drop in job. This is… This would take…”

“It’ll take you until the morning, and you’ll do what you’re told.” And with that, Priest stomped out of the room.

Taylor stared at the open door, the drab hallway lighting blurring as her anger reached a crescendo. She slammed the door and stalked around the room. Prepping a cover in less than twenty-four hours is absurd, let alone an extraction. She grabbed her mobile, opened her contact list and rifled through it. A small part of her wanted to ring Wilson, but he was in Madrid; there wasn’t much he could do from there. Patrick… Patrick was in London. She hesitated, chewing her lip. She couldn’t call him. Maybe this was a test. Patrick would have to know if they were heading into his territory. Priest would have notified him. These things with Priest were getting ridiculously out of hand, but it was the lack of sleep that kept bringing on this impulsivity.

Most officers were given two or three weeks of notice prior to and a good month off following an assignment. If Priest kept bouncing her around every few days, she wasn’t going to last. There were teams, there were networks, there were supports built in, and all of this was going against… Sack up, James, she told herself. You’re being a girl about this. With an angry huff, she stormed into the bathroom and stripped down for a hot shower.

She didn’t waste much time in the shower, but the steam helped to clear her head. She wrapped a towel around herself and padded back into the Spartan room. With purpose, her mind freshly focused, she spread the file out on the bed and started going through the papers. Priest had gone too far… again. But she’d yet to fail on account of his idiocy. She pushed him out of her mind and focused on the task at hand. First things first, she had to know her cover. And for the next few days, she’d be… Bethany Taylor? Really? She groaned. Priest was an idiot.

By six in the morning, she was growing bored of the lack of attention to detail she found in the file. She had managed to access a map of the grad school she supposedly attended, a list of faculty, a mock schedule, courses she’d be taking and teaching. All for an identity that she needed to be able to wear like a second skin. Priest had said there’d be a suitcase for her on collection, but she didn’t trust him to know what he was doing with women’s fashion either. She packed a carry-on with necessities and covered them with items her alter-ego might want on a flight, laying out casual clothes for the trip itself.

She was still simmering about her cover, the name, the occupation – who the hell studies silver-smithing in the eighteenth century? And beyond that, how was she supposed to know a thing about it based on the two pages that Priest had bothered to gather? There was also the issue of the entire purpose of her trip. A two-fold assignment on six hours of prep. She shook her head. The extraction wouldn’t be an issue. She could do something like that in her sleep. Though, the number of people in the room would make it interesting. Establishing the contact, on the other hand… Why was she the one doing this? Didn’t this fall under the remit of the London office? Taylor tried to ignore the feeling that Priest was over-stepping his bounds and he wanted that asset for himself. And turning her first name into her surname…

She ran through the extraction again. The piece was small enough, and she had a container perfect for it. Thank God for small blessings. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem, getting the piece would be a challenge. Everything going to plan, and she’d be out on time. Her cover gave her a good reason to be there. But her cover didn’t give her any reason for the contact. That was going to be more tricky.

Taylor started pacing on the threadbare carpet. Every step was a piece to memorize, a pace to remember in the castle, dimensions, people, the chemical properties of silver… Ugh. There was so much bullshit to know for this one. She rolled her eyes and decided to get dressed. If she kept a tight schedule, she could pick up an item or two before the company car would be here. Time to get a move on.

 

~o~

 

“What are we doing here, Sherlock?” Watson asked, tugging uncomfortably on his bowtie.

Sherlock turned sharply, “It’s a bit of culture, John. Stop being such a soldier, and appreciate the beautiful things in life.”

“Sherlock,” he warned, crossing his arms in agitation. “I know you better than this. Why are we really here?”

“Edinburgh, home of the only true James Bond, of Joseph Bell, of the Calton, of Muir and Stevenson, of Burke and Hare, and people that worship a little terrier.” Sherlock’s mouth flickered in a smile before recovering into a blank slate. “This city is Roman and Viking, Gothic and Victorian, progressive and ancient. Have you ever been to Edinburgh before?”

“The Royal College is here, Sherlock. Of course I’ve been here.”

“In August, John?”

He blinked rapidly at Sherlock. “No, never in August. What’s the damn difference?”

“The Tattoo,” Sherlock said simply.

“What?”

“The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo. It’s been going on for the better part of sixty years. They put up stands along the esplanade and march up the Mile and make a bloody awful racket. Tell me you’ve heard of the Tattoo.”

John sighed heavily. “Of course I’ve heard of the Tattoo, Sherlock. It’s starting up next week; that’s why they’re putting up those bloody seats over the entryway.”

“Did you know that a series of high ranking military officials attend the Tattoo annually?”

“Of course, it’s mostly military bands. And there’s normally someone from the Royal Family in attendance. And over a hundred thousand people, two of which are apparently us.” John shifted from one foot to the other and cocked his head to the side, squinting at Sherlock. “So what?”

Sherlock raised a brow, a smirk on his lips. “What do you think they talk about?”

John frowned, “What do I think they… What the hell does it matter, Sherlock?”

A grin stretched across Sherlock’s face.

John blinked then pursed his lips, “You’re not going to tell me.”

“Go have a drink, John. Enjoy yourself.” Sherlock winked and disappeared into the crowd.

“Of course,” John muttered to no one in particular. “Why would you tell me anyway? It’s not like I have anything else to do. I love getting dressed up in tuxedos, and wandering around with strangers, on my own.” He looked up, sighed, straightened his jacket, took two steps towards the drink table, and nearly knocked the poor girl over.

 

~o~

 

Going to the Gala was a necessary evil. She was mentally tired, physically exhausted, especially after the last hour of acrobatics, and that made socializing with a crowd of people a dangerous idea. Dangerous, but necessary. They’d notice if she didn’t show up. It’d look suspicious. Particularly in a few hours, days, weeks… Whenever they got their shit together enough to notice. She sighed and glanced up just in time to side step a waiter with a tray of wine glasses. She twisted to the side as a woman swept her hand out in alarmingly extravagant gesticulation, only narrowly avoiding being clocked in the face by gaudy costume jewelry.

Unfortunately, the movement was all for naught, as a man in full tops and tails wasn’t looking where he was going and collided with Taylor, knocking her off balance. Taylor stumbled forward and bumped into another gentleman in a tuxedo. “I-I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly, trying to regain her feet. Damnit, she was jumpy. It really wasn’t her style to hang around the scene of a crime, and it was far less her style to lose her feet. Jesus, she needed to sleep.

The man caught her elbow, “No, no. My fault.” He held onto her arm for a brief moment longer than necessary as she righted herself. “Are you alright?”

Taylor straightened her dress, quickly checking her necklace then smoothing her hair, giving the man a quick once-over. Well fitted tux, clearly not a rental, hand tied bowtie, not too tall, British from the accent, hands slightly rough but clean, self-deprecating smile, and he looked familiar. Mostly, he looked safe for conversation. “I um…” she forced herself to blush. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Apparently I’m kinda clumsy.”

Watson smiled in what he hoped was coming across as a charming rather than creepy way. “These cobblestone floors are a health hazard,” he murmured softly, then cleared his throat, straightening to his full height. “Ah… Could I escort you back to your friends?”

Taylor tilted her head to the side and smiled shyly. Why did his face look so familiar? “I… I’m here on my own,” she said softly.

“Oh, well. Good. No, not good, but… Ok.” Watson a self-deprecating chuckle and offered his arm. “Would you care for a drink?”

He was chatting her up. Wait, was he? Taylor let herself blush again and took his arm, “Thank you.”

He led her the short distance to the nearest drinks table and handed her a glass of white wine. “That would have been so much more chivalrous if there weren’t free drinks tonight.”

Taylor chuckled and clinked her glass off of his. “Well thank you anyway.” Small sips tonight, she told herself.

“John Watson,” he held his hand out.

Taylor shook it, her mind turning over the name. Why did that sound familiar? She was missing something… “Taylor,” she nearly stumbled over her own words as she hurried to fill in the absent name. “Bethany Taylor.” Effing Priest with the names. She was ready to kill him.

“You’re American?”

“You sound surprised,” Taylor smiled.

“I just wasn’t expecting to run into any Americans this evening.”

Her smile grew. “I’m sorry to upset your evening.”

He let out a small laugh. “Exactly the opposite, I assure you.”

“You’re not Scottish.”

“How ever could you tell?” John asked wryly.

Taylor cocked a brow, “For starters, I can understand you.”

He chuckled. “And I can understand you, which begs the question – what Northern State are you from?”

“Originally? Massachusetts.” She took a small sip of wine and smiled as he mirrored her movement. “But more recently, I’m in DC.”

“Not government I hope,” John’s smile was sweet, but the look in his eyes was guarded.

Taylor’s laugh was easy, “No, no. God, no.” She made a face and shook her head. “That’d be awful. No, I’m working on my Masters. I’m an artist.”

“Oh really?” the tight expression on his face eased. “What kind of art?”

“It’s silly,” Taylor bit her lip and looked away shyly.

“Ah come on. Nothing’s silly.” The tips of his fingers came to rest just beneath her elbow.

Taylor didn’t flinch away from the touch, but it made her slightly uncomfortable. Human contact, it was… personal. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. There was no malice in his gaze, just… He was actually flirting. She was almost positive. Nearly positive. Somewhat positive. Her vision blurred momentarily. God she needed sleep. She gave him a shy smile. “Well, I… I work with silver. I study silver smithing in the 18th century. So… I design things.”

“Things?” John probed.

“Well, there’s what I do for my degree, and what I do to make money.” She shrugged a shoulder. “There’s not much money in silver armor anymore. But jewelry…”

“Would I be familiar with anything you’ve made?”

Taylor let out a big belly laugh, much to John’s chagrin. When she caught herself, she shook her head. “My work doesn’t really make it into museums.”

John bobbed his head in acquiescence and raised his brows, “Anything floating around the castle?”

“Oh I wish,” Taylor sighed. “I’m not that good.”

“What about the jewelry you make?”

“Oh!” Taylor raised her voice energetically, mimicking enthusiasm she was far from feeling. “My necklace!” She tried to shake off the silly energy by picking up the locket with the tips of her fingers. “It’s one of mine.”

John leaned in, taking the small silver charm against his fingers. “This is lovely,” he said quietly. “And you made this yourself?” Taylor gave a nod. He ran the pad of his thumb over the top of the small disc. “Is it a locket? Or just a charm?”

She glanced down at his fingers. “Just a charm,” she lied.

“Well it’s incredibly intricate.” He replaced the necklace, the backs of his fingers brushing the delicate skin over her breastbone. “You must be a very talented artist. Clever hands.” John quirked a brow.

Taylor felt the grin start before she could smother it. “Great with my hands,” She gave small wink. “Clumsy on my feet.”

John laughed as Taylor brought the wine glass to her lips, but she stopped short of taking a sip as another man appeared at John’s side. She glanced up at him, masking her recognition behind her surprise at his unexpected materialization. Fuck. Oh fuckity fuck balls! That’s why John Watson looked familiar. He was in one of the stills she’d studied. How could she have been so stupid? Fuck, fuck, fuck. The new gentleman’s voice was equally as unexpected; deep, smooth, precise. “John, we’ve got a problem.”

The smile melted from Watson’s face. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and flashed a strained smile to Taylor. “Sherlock, hello, nice to see you, again,” he turned toward him and hissed at a level he hoped Taylor couldn’t hear, “Now bugger off.”

Sherlock’s brows flit together in a frown as he cocked his head, his eyes darted to Taylor and his face relaxed into an expressionless neutral position. “You found a friend.”

John sucked in a breath to berate him, but exhaled equally as sharply and plastered another uncomfortable smile on his face. “Sherlock Holmes, meet Bethany Taylor.”

“Pleasure,” Sherlock drawled.

Taylor reached out her hand, sizing Holmes up. He was slim and taller than she’d expected, but then again, she was tiny and Watson wasn’t much taller than she was. His features were sharp, but the way he scrutinized the room seemed to enhance the shrewdness. Sherlock gave her hand a brief shake and his attention turned back to John. “Now, John, the whole reason we’re here.”

Taylor knew she should be paying attention to Holmes. She really, really should be. But there was a very soft, subtle hissing noise that caught her ear. And once she heard it, she couldn’t ignore it. She turned, trying to pin point the source. “Do you smell burning?” Shit, why was she talking aloud? Jesus, she really needed some proper sleep.

Holmes frowned. “Smell burning? One does not ‘smell burning.’ Burning is an active combustion of flammable fuels. You can smell the smoke, the degradation products, the toxic left overs.”

“No, wait,” John interrupted the tirade, his head swiveled. “I smell it too.”

Her gut instinct was to run, but she held her ground and took a rapid inventory of the gala tent. Where was the fuel, where was the starter, where was the smoke? The scent had a metallic tinge to it, a hot sensation that made Taylor think electrical. Maybe melted plastic? It could easily look accidental. But there wasn’t any smoke.

“If there’s a fire, where’s the smoke?” John asked.

A sinking feeling settled in Taylor’s gut. If it wasn’t an accidental fire… She switched gears; how would she do it? Big tent, hundreds of people, fire as a distraction… Distraction from what? Sure, she used a distraction before she’d appropriated the archive. Her eyes landed on the support rods for the tent. Metal rods, bedecked in crepe-paper, wiring for the lights running through the middle—it had everything: ignition, starter fuel, spectacle. And wherever the fire started, that was the area she’d want clear.

There was another soft hiss, a click, and a gentle whoosh as the rod to the right of the drinks table went up in flames. “Holy shit,” she whispered, setting her glass on the table. Later, when she had time to think about it, Taylor would admit that the fire was beautiful and even somewhat amusing: white doilies gently burning, making a roman candle of the pole in the middle of the tent, setting fire to the canvas overhead. Then someone else noticed the fire and the screaming began.

Sherlock spun toward the flames, drawn to the fire rather than driven away. John swore and dashed out of Taylor’s line of vision. She wobbled on her high heels as three of the guests bumped into her in their hurry to escape the growing flames. Panic began to spread as there were shouts and screams, but Taylor didn’t run. The gears in her head churning slowly… Too slowly. Sherlock was busy pulling melted and broken wires from the base of the rod; and John had returned with a fire extinguisher and was making a valiant attempt to put out the blaze.

Suddenly, Taylor was anxious to be out of the tent. The swell of people made her uneasy about the extraction, and the chaos was going to build. She backed away from the melee, subconsciously counting paces to the exit behind her. It wasn’t the direction that everyone seemed to be headed, and it suited her just fine. It’d bring her closer to the castle, closer to cover, and closer to her secondary exit.

“It’s no good, John,” Sherlock pointed to the roof of the tent, already on fire itself and spreading quickly. “We need get everyone out!”

Watson gave a quick nod and instantly became a traffic director, his voice calm and sure as he laid order to the mass of bodies scrambling about in fear. He guided people to the nearest exit, lining them up as they spilled out onto the large castle terrace. Sherlock was hot on the heels of the last person, grabbing John’s shoulders as he passed, pulling him out of the flaming pavilion.

John planted his hands on his knees and coughed, clearing his throat of the soot from the smoke and staring up at the fire. “Well,” he coughed again. “That got out of hand rather quickly.”

Sherlock untied his bowtie, letting it hang loose around his neck and nodded in agreement. He coughed and glanced around the courtyard. “What happened to your little friend?”

John pushed himself back upright and scanned the area. “I don’t know, she was right next to me a moment ago.”

Over the noisy turmoil of the esplanade, the sound of a scream echoed off of the stone walls. John’s eyes widened as he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock frowned, squinting into the darkness beyond the fire that had consumed the bulk of the tent. The look exchanged between the two men was a silent consensus wrapped in the smallest nod. But before they could take even a step forward, a large blast erupted from base of the castle. A fireball shot into the air as the concussion shook the ground of the terrace and knocked gravel and stone free from the ancient castle walls. And John and Sherlock were thrown to the ground with the hot burst of air.

 

~o~

 

Taylor pushed past the tent flap and started across the terrace, hugging the lower wall of the castle that bordered the esplanade, keeping in the shadow and heading for the main body of the castle. The cobblestone, however smoothed with age, left her slightly unsteady in the high heels, and the last thing she needed was to turn her ankle and have to hobble down the stairs. But she couldn’t bring herself to kick them off, not with the fire. Behind her, she could hear the shouts as people poured from the tent into the open air. Small blessings that it wasn’t raining.

She heard something; above the crackle of the fires and the hum of people, she heard a shuffle on the stone, a footfall, the tinkle of gravel on the ground. Taylor froze, her hackles up, her ears straining for more information. Positive the sound came from somewhere in front of her rather than behind, she backed up, slowly inching her way back toward the burning tent. She didn’t flinch as a man emerged from the shadows of the passageway, but that she couldn’t make out his face in the darkness was alarming.

“Where is it?” he growled.

She eyed the distance between her and the nearest group of people. Now the flaming tent was an obstacle rather than an advantage. She briefly contemplated making a run for it, but she’d never make it, not with everyone distracted by the fire. “Where’s what?” she asked cautiously. Her hand slipped along her belt, ignoring her small purse where it hung across her shoulder, extracting her knife from the scabbard concealed at the small of her back. She felt better with a weapon in her hand. A very tiny bit better, but better. He took two quick steps toward her, and she stepped back as quickly, trying to maintain the distance.

He stepped forward again. “Where is it?” he demanded again, a harsh edge in his accent. She frowned as she tried to place the inflection in his voice.

A flurry of options flashed through her mind, but the first and best alternative seemed to be to draw attention to herself. She took a deep breath and screamed a loud and piercing shriek. Rather than fleeing, she saw a broad smile stretch across the man’s face and an uneasy feeling twisted her gut. The grin wasn’t what she expected, and certainly not what she wanted. The last echo of her scream bounced off the stone walls and she turned to run, only making it a few feet before the man was upon her.

He grabbed her arm, spinning her around. And Taylor lashed out with her small knife, catching him high on the cheek and drawing blood, the shock forcing him to let her go. She was only a step away when the explosion threw her back into the wall. She flinched, drawing her hands up against the shrapnel, the blast winding her and the heat sucking her breath from her lungs.

Taylor gasped, sucking in air, the remaining heat singeing the back of her throat. God, she hated explosions. She was momentarily grateful the concussion had pushed her back into the wall as mortar landed where she had stood. She coughed out the heat and scrambled to right herself, shaking her head to clear the ringing in her ears, pushing off the wall, and heading back for the tent, or what was left of it.

The man recovered nearly as quickly as she did and caught her before she reached the open space. He locked her arm behind her back, slamming her face first into the wall. Taylor didn’t hesitate; she clenched the dagger in her hand and kicked backward, her heel smashing into his knee. He released her as he stumbled backward. She slashed at him, the knife missing by a hair’s breadth. He lashed out in return, backhanding her across the face and knocking her into the rubble. She scrambled, not even bothering to fully rise, and picked her way over the debris and closer to the tent.

Taylor cried out in anger as he collided with her, knocking her onto her back. She kicked out, the top of her foot connecting with his chin, keeping him at a distance. She managed to find her feet and ran toward the pavilion. The man chased her, catching up as she neared her original exit. Without thought, she dove under the drinks table, allowing herself to slide through the ash to gain distance.

The man stood at the entrance to the pavilion, glaring as she neared the far side. She stood, breathing heavily, meeting his glare in return. The bells of the tower struck, marking half-past the hour, and the man’s face drew into a snarl. Taylor stepped backward again, skirting one of the supporting poles. With the second toll, another explosion rocked the ground. Taylor was thrown to the side and she grimaced as the fell hard on her knees. The tent gave an awful creak as it listed to the side. Taylor swallowed hard and glanced at the space where the man had stood; it was empty.

Her head shot up; she heard him move, heard the gravel. He was upon her faster than she could anticipate. She swept a foot out to knock him down, but he managed to side step the kick and his arm locked around her neck. She tried to scream, her hands struggling to find purchase as her air was cut off. Taylor arched, catching the back of his neck with her hand, and rolled to the side, throwing him over her hip. She sputtered and sucked in a breath, her vision blurring in and out of focus.

He recovered faster than she, snatching a large piece of rubble from the ground. He lunged at her, cold cocking her with a solid blow to the side of the head, knocking her unconscious with the stone. Taylor collapsed awkwardly, face down on the ground. A third explosion rumbled through the stone ground, and the man glanced at the tent supports as they swayed uneasily. He wrenched the small purse from her shoulder, frowned at her still form, and with an agitated huff, he darted out of the tent the way he’d come in.

One of the supports collapsed, showering the floor with sparks and flaming canvas. The remaining structure creaked and shuddered, the clunk of masonry settling on the stone ground drowning out the flames.

Sherlock burst into the tent, John a half step behind him. It only took a fraction of a second for them to spot her, the black of her dress standing out against the bits of white canvas. “John,” Sherlock pointed, but John was already on his way.

Watson stomped on the blazing canvas to put out the nearest fire as Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his hands to move the collapsed rod aside. John squatted by her side, giving her a quick once-over; Taylor groaned, but didn’t wake. He stripped his tux jacket and wrapped it around her, the bruises and burns not escaping his notice. Carefully, he lifted her and followed Sherlock from the tent.

Sherlock glanced around the courtyard, flashing lights and sirens filling the night. John paused at his side, “We need an ambulance.”

Sherlock turned, the numerous minor injuries and limping guests ready to take the attention of any paramedics. The sheer numbers of people was going to make medical assistance difficult. “We’re going to have a problem with that one.”

Watson furrowed his brow, looking at the chaos around them and ducking quickly to the side to avoid a stretcher. As he jumped, a puff of dust kicked up from the terrace ground near his feet. He spun, desperately searching for a source. “Sherlock, I think we have a bigger problem.” Another two shots narrowly missed them, and Sherlock flinched. “Go get the car,” John said softly, “I’ll meet you there.”

They split up, heading different directions. John moved carefully, protecting Taylor with his body as he took cover behind pillars and walls, skirting the terrace. John counted one or two more misses before he should to be out of range. The damn esplanade was wide open, but by the time he’d reached the first non-pedestrian intersection of the Mile, he had to be out of range.

Sherlock screeched to a stop in front of him, jumped out of the car, and pulled the backdoor open. John laid Taylor in the backseat and climbed in after her. Sherlock rushed back to the driver’s seat and jumped in. John ducked as two bullets shattered the back windows. “Sherlock!” he shouted.

Sherlock threw the car in gear and tore around the bend. Glancing nervously in the rear mirror as they sped down the Royal Mile and away from the castle. “Are we clear?”

Watson swallowed and eyed the bullet holes in the rear windshield. “I think so.”

“We can’t go to the Royal Vic,” Sherlock muttered.

John nodded, looking down at Taylor’s unconscious form. “She… She doesn’t look too bad. I should be able to mind her myself.”

Sherlock locked eyes with him in the mirror. “It’s a five hour drive to London, John.”

“Seven.”

The smallest semblance of a smile crossed his lips. “Not the way I drive.”

Watson shook his head and turned back to the unconscious girl. He carefully turned her head so he could sit more comfortably, supporting her across his lap. She winced, stirring then settling as he took his hand away. John frowned at the fresh blood on his palm, eyeing the large swelling on the side of the woman’s head. “Five will do then,” he whispered.


	2. Neither Kith nor Kin in the Cesspool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to London, fancy a trip to Bart's?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the risk of writing myself into a corner... Here is chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it.

Holmes glanced down at the sleeping form. She had moved, furrowed her brow, her breathing had changed ever so slightly. She’d wake soon. A small frown flitted across his mouth. The wounds on her forehead and cheek had stopped bleeding. John had been minding her previously, but he’d taken a breather, gone out for some food or something else ridiculous and unnecessary. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, the shape of the injuries catching his interest. High on her cheek was a laceration, patterned, sharp, jagged, ring like, a man’s ring. He reached down and turned a lock of her hair away from the wound, his fingers brushing across her cheek.

She started. Violently awake in a heartbeat, and she panicked, sitting bolt upright. There was a trace of disorientation in her action, but it didn’t slow her practiced movements. Her left hand closed around his left wrist, her thumb pressing into the pressure point as she twisted his hand out and away. The sharp stab in his wrist distracted him just long enough for her next move, and he went from distracted to startled as her right hand clamped around his throat. Her grip was stronger than he’d anticipated and in the moment it took him to recognize her strength, his airway closed beneath her fingers.

“Sherlock?” the name accompanied a jangle of keys and footsteps on the stairwell. Taylor glanced toward the door, terror clear on her face. “Sherlock, I picked up more food, but I don’t…” The man froze in the doorway, taking in the scene. He carefully set down the bag and keys, extending his hands in a placating manner. “Sherlock?”

Holmes’ hand closed around her wrist, delicately encouraging her to loosen her grip. And Taylor’s eyes widened as she heard the name. She swallowed hard and her eyes flit from one man to another, settling on Sherlock’s blank face. Oh fuck, what was she doing? Where the hell was she? And how? She let her confusion show. “You? You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

Watson approached the pair as cautiously as he would a wounded animal. “Bethany” he said gently. She started and twisted to face him. “Bethany Taylor?” He squatted down in front of her to seem as unthreatening as possible, relieved to see some semblance of recognition. “My name is John Watson, and the man you’re trying to strangle there is Sherlock Holmes.”

How did he know her legend? Where the hell was she? She glanced at her hand where it wrapped around his throat and released him with a soft cry, as if shocked by her own actions. Taylor wasn’t one to make mistakes, but she had no idea what was going on. She adopted a self-preservation tactic she’d learned as a child and slumped back on the couch, folding herself to take up as little space as possible. Sherlock coughed a few times and straightened to his full height, adjusting his shirt to put it right. “Pleasure,” he muttered. “Again.”

Watson relocated to the couch beside the girl and scowled at Holmes. “A cup of tea, Sherlock, if you don’t mind.” He turned back to Taylor and smiled gently.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes shouted as he stalked into the kitchen.

Watson flinched more from the girl’s reaction than the noise. “I’m sorry, he… He can be like that.”

Taylor self-consciously pulled down on the hem of her dress and wrapped the jacket around her, wincing as the movement pulled at bruises and abrasions she didn’t realize were there. It took a moment for her to notice that the jacket was a man’s tuxedo jacket and flashes of Sherlock and John in black tie flitted through her mind. It had to be John’s; were it Sherlock’s, the sleeves would be a foot past her fingertips. She let her gaze drift around the room, taking in each nuance in as much detail as her mind would allow. She calmed her breathing, trying to keep the tremor from her hands before shifting from the ball she’d made. Her right arm was throbbing, and small darts of pain came from her cheek, her lip, her forehead, and her knees. Taylor bit her tongue, not committing to anything until she had to. That was Sherlock Holmes; she’d found the man she wanted. But where the fuck was she? How did she get here?

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Watson scowled again. “Damnit, Sherlock! I’d think you could make a spot of tea on your own.”

“Coffee?”

“Hm?” Watson turned.

Taylor cleared her throat cautiously; it was hoarse and not just from disuse. “I could really use a cup of coffee.” There was no way she’d drink tea. It wouldn’t fit her persona and it gave her heartburn. Plus, it’d been a while since her last caffeine intake and that was certainly contributing to her headache.

“Only if you take a spot of food as well. Do you think you could manage a few bites of toast?” He waited for her to nod before smiling. Watson let out a laugh. “Coffee it is! Sherlock, make that a coffee and toast.”

“Can you trust me to boil the kettle, John?” Sherlock muttered from the kitchen. John turned and glared at Sherlock, the two locking eyes for a few seconds. John raised a brow and pursed his lips at Sherlock’s unwavering, blank gaze. Eventually, John sighed, dropped his gaze and shook his head, setting his hands on his knees to push himself up. But John missed the quirk in Sherlock’s brow before he turned into the kitchen. “Coffee, yes. Black?”

John looked up in surprise, but shrugged and gave Taylor an inquisitive smile.

Taylor watched the exchanges cautiously, trying to suss out the current risk. She was inside of an eclectically decorated European flat. From the outside sounds, she knew she was in a city, in the UK? It didn’t look like Edinburgh. “Milk please?”

The sound that came from the kitchen was a cross between a sigh and a groan. John simply shook his head in response.

“Um,” she looked at the man sitting next to her. “Where am I?”

John glanced at her, mouth slightly agape. “Sorry, no, sorry. This is Baker Street.” He smiled kindly.

There was something in the smile that caught her memory, and she knew why the man looked familiar; he’d been hitting on her at the gala. And apparently he lived with Sherlock Holmes? Lucky wasn’t a word she liked to use, but really? She desperately regretted that she couldn’t remember last evening in its entirety. Taylor nodded slowly. “And, um, where exactly is that?”

“London,” he answered simply. It took a moment for him to realize why she was asking. “Oh, sorry, yes. London. You were, well, the explosion created all sorts of chaos. Things were burning. I pulled you out. But with everything that was going on…”

“We put you in the back of my landrover and drove like the wind,” Sherlock finished, delicately placing a cup of coffee in front of her.

Taylor frowned. Explosion? What? A drive from Edinburgh to London would have taken hours. Bits and pieces of the explosion filtered back to her, but… “Um, isn’t… Isn’t that a long drive?”

“About five hours,” John nodded.

“Just five?” she picked up the coffee, letting the warmth of the mug soak into her palms. “I… I thought it was further than that.”

Sherlock smirked from his chair. “Normally, yes.”

Taylor looked confused, “Normally?”

“Sherlock has a different driving style than most,” John chimed in.

She took a timid sip of her coffee and replaced it on the table. She sighed and furrowed her brow, avoiding the impulse to chew on her lower lip where the split was still raw. They knew her as Bethany, so they could only have had contact at the gala. Her brain churned. And John, he was… She could remember him in a tux, but… But she had images of him from… Ugh, damnit brain, start working again. What would possess someone to practically abduct a total stranger? “But…” She absently picked at the bandage on her right arm. Bandage? “Why am I here?” She gazed back and forth between the two men. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m super glad not to be under a pile of burning tent. But… I guess…”

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I don’t take it lightly when someone shoots out the back windscreen of my Landrover. And while I naturally would like to find those responsible, I don’t fancy dealing with a group that detonated three well controlled, well planned explosives at a national event with an invalid in tow.”

Taylor went pale. “There were… There were three bombs?” The man doesn’t blink, she thought to herself. Why doesn’t he blink?

John glanced at Sherlock with a frown, softening his expression before he turned back to Taylor. “At the time, it seemed safer to bring you back here than attend a hospital in the local area.”

Taylor swallowed hard, the gears in her head picking up speed. She could now remember two of the detonations, and the men were right; the explosions had been carefully controlled and executed. Hell, she’d nearly been executed. Her hand went to the locket dangling around her neck in an act of nervousness. Pull yourself together, James, she scolded herself, you’ve had worse than a near death experience, and certainly, Priest was going to give her another when she finally got back. Oh… Taylor groaned inwardly; she was late.

John set a comforting hand on her arm and she flinched. “Sorry,” he apologized quickly, taking her elbow in his palm. “I dressed that earlier, but the anaesthetic is probably worn off.”

“Dressed it?” Taylor covered for her nerves. It’s not as though he can read your mind, James, she though, watching as he drew back the loose sleeve of the jacket, revealing the bandage wrapped around her forearm. “What is _it_?”

“Second degree burn,” Sherlock said flatly. “John, if you want to stop playing doctor for a moment, there’s still the issue of the theft.”

John frowned at him. “I do not ‘Play Doctor,’ Sherlock. I am a doctor.”

“Sherlock!”

Taylor jumped and turned toward the door, snapping her arm back from John and folding herself into a small space. Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly, “Go away, Lestrade.”

“What were you thinking?” The man demanded.

John frowned. “Do we really need to be yelling?” He turned back to Taylor and placed a gentle hand on her knee. “It’s ok, he’s a friend of ours.”

“Not really,” Sherlock chimed in dismissively.

“Is that her?” Lestrade demanded.

“Her? The proper grammatical rules demand the use of subject pronoun rather than object pronoun. Is that she? Even a DI should know that rule. Besides, that would depend on who ‘her’ is.”

Taylor shrank back further on the couch. John twisted to face the man now pacing around the room. “Greg, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” the man stopped in his pacing. “You two; that’s what’s wrong.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that Detective Inspector Lestrade is merely upset now that the Scottish branch is down in his backyard.”

“She’s a witness, Sherlock,” Lestrade pointed at Taylor. “And she’s covered in evidence. You can’t go taking witnesses from a crime scene!”

“I believe both myself and Doctor Watson are witnesses as well,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You seem unconcerned about that fact.”

John stood and made an effort to calm the two men. “They were shooting at us, Greg. What were we supposed to do?”

“We could just hang around for the coppers to sort out the bombs and the injuries,” Sherlock threw in with disgust.

“I swear to God, Sherlock, one of these days you’re going to upset the wrong people.” Lestrade crossed his arms and glared. Sherlock scoffed in return, and John managed to shoot both of them an annoyed look at the same time.

Taylor could see where the conversation was headed, and no scenario she could imagine ended without a trip to Scotland Yard, without a trip back to Edinburgh. She worried her lower lip, watching John and Lestrade have a hushed but animated conversation. It was risky. It was always risky, but this was horribly risky. Maybe stupid. “Do you need something from me?” she asked softly. Ok, really stupid.

All three men turned to look at her and she resisted the urge to shrink back against the couch. “For starters, a statement would be nice,” Lestrade broke the silence first.

“That can wait, if you’re not feeling up to it,” John added quickly, scowling at Lestrade.

“The evidence can’t, John.” Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and blinked slowly. “She is covered with soot, possibly bits of the explosive, possibly fragments of DNA from her attacker. The moment she changes her clothes, takes a shower, washes her hands, that will be lost.”

John sighed; Sherlock was right. He forced a smile and glanced back at Taylor. She straightened her back, making herself look like she was trying to look taller, “I can do it now.” Her voice was still soft, wavering, seeming small and vulnerable; anything to get through this unscathed, she told herself.

“We’ll go down to the Yard. We can collect the evidence and go through the statement there.”

“Terrible idea,” Sherlock interrupted Lestrade. “No one in the Yard will be able to extract anything of use. Anderson would only make a mockery of the process. And if you hadn’t noticed, the poor girl has a few injuries that should be tended. Take her to Bart’s. Everything can be done there.”

John had relocated to the couch, setting a reassuring hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Bart’s is one of the local hospitals. It’s not far.”

Taylor nodded slowly, categorizing the people in the room. Lestrade: DI, bossy but reasonably impressionable, black and white. Sherlock: cold, calculating, shrewd, manipulative? Maybe? John: calm, level-headed, clearly ex-military, self-described doctor, protective. She was starting to get the impression that John was the counterpoise to Sherlock, and keeping John close would better for her than having Sherlock scrutinizing her every movement. “Will, will you come with me?”

John gave Lestrade a look before he could object. “Of course.”

Lestrade merely shook his head. “Fine, now?”

Taylor swallowed and nodded, rising tentatively with John’s assistance. Sherlock stood as well, donning his coat and scarf. “I’ll meet you there, I’ve to see about the rear windscreen on my car.”

“Sherlock,” John objected.

He popped his head back in through the door. “I’ll meet you there, John.”

“Sherlo-“ John tried to catch him, but he was gone.

 

Taylor was carefully escorted to the waiting car, treading delicately in her stocking feet. At one point, she considered asking about her shoes, but they’d certainly fallen off in the melee. John rode in the back with her, helping her out of the car when they arrived at the hospital’s rear entrance.

An awkward yet chirpy, mousy lab tech met them at the small entrance, introducing herself as Molly. John met the young woman fondly and followed her into a small waiting room. Evidence bags sat on the end of one bench, a hospital gown tucked beneath it, and a metallic exam table was in the center of the room. Everything in the small space could clearly be sterilized. It was only then that Taylor remembered the sheath hidden at the back of her dress. Taking a quick mental tally, she was confident that the only thing she needed to rid herself of was the scabbard. Rather than volunteer anything, she stood awkwardly in the room and tried be as wide-eyed and confused as possible.

John set a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Have you ever done something like this before?”

“No,” Taylor lied, shaking her head and fidgeting with the sleeves of the jacket.

John’s smile was gentle, “There’s nothing to it. Molly will help you through it. All the clothes you’re wearing go into the plastic bags. Put on the gown. Then Molly and one of the analysts will check you for any remaining evidence.” He raised both brows, “Alright so far?”

Taylor nodded slowly, “I think so.”

“Once I’m given the all clear, I’ll mind the rest, alright?”

“The rest?” Taylor’s eyes went wide.

His head bobbed quickly toward her arm. “The burn, the abrasions, that lac on your cheek.”

Taylor gave a final understanding nod and sucked in a breath for courage. “Wait, what about my necklace? Does that…?”

John glanced over at Molly who smiled, raised her brows, and gave an unusual head shake that was neither a yes nor no. “I suppose we can do without that in the lab.” Taylor fought with the clasp until John managed to remove it for her. He slipped the jewelry into his pocket. “Just remind me about it later?”

She nodded. “Can?... I, um… Can I use the bathroom first?”

 “I don’t see why not,” he gave her shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “She’s all yours, Doctor Hooper.”

Taylor remained still, watching John leave, blinking as the door closed in his wake. The lab tech stepped into Taylor’s field of vision cautiously, timidly, maybe kindly. “Um, so, Bethany, Ms. Taylor,” she started in a chirpy, girlish voice. “Maybe, if we could, before I take you to the loo…” She was interrupted as the door opened again.

“Any time now, ladies,” the new man gave a half smile that didn’t reach his eyes and reminded Taylor of bared teeth rather than a benevolent greeting. Taylor clenched her jaw and met his gaze for a moment; his mere presence raised her hackles, and his tone combined with the heavy Scottish accent was a polar opposite to Molly’s perky voice. He had a disheveled look: dark hair a bit too long and untamed, scruff that went beyond a five o’clock shadow, worn leather jacket open over an untucked and partially unbuttoned basic blue oxford, and what Taylor only supposed were once black trousers, now greyish and somehow worn looking without being frayed. “I hope ye weren’t discussing doing anything other than bagging up my evidence.”

Whether or not she appreciated Taylor’s tense form, Molly bristled. She turned sharply and glared at the man. Surprisingly, all polite and demure Molly ruffled like a threatened animal and she frowned. Her nose wrinkled when she spoke, but there was no waver in her voice, “Inspector, you’ve been told. This is none of your business. Now get out!”

The inspector grinned, his voice becoming soft and patronizing. “Ach, I know, Doctor Hooper. I just wanted to see how it was coming.” He had the look of a child that’d be caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Molly was having none of it, and Taylor had to fight every impulse to chuckle as Molly seethed. “If Bethany needs the loo, I’ll bring her to the loo. If she needs a steak dinner, I’ll be getting her a steak dinner. And if you walk in this room again, I’ll kick you in the shins!” She closed the distance between them, her cheeks flushed as she craned her neck to glare at him. “With the greatest respect, you will contaminate the evidence. You’ve no business here! If you don’t leave this instant, I will ring DI Lestrade and have him remove you!”

“Alright, alright.” He held up his hands in a conciliatory manner, but his chuckle was less convincing. “Yer off’a yer head.”

“Out!” Molly barked, staring him down. His chuckle continued until the door was closed. Molly huffed and turned, shaking her shoulders in distaste and muttering about him being a nuisance. In a last act of repressed anger, she shook her hands loose then took a deep breath and raised her head to look at Taylor. “Sorry, sorry. That was,” she cleared her throat as the flush faded from her face. “That was a little unprofessional. But he just… Ugh.”

Taylor smiled; she couldn’t have helped it if she tried. “Who was that?”

“That was the DI from Edinburgh. He’s a… He’s a knob.” Molly wrinkled her nose as if she found it as distasteful to say the word as to be called it. “He has been sticking his nose into everyone’s business here. I think he tries too hard.”

Taylor nodded. Leave it to the meek to see right through the liars. She stiffened, suddenly hoping that Molly wouldn’t see through her as well. “He, um… He seemed… I dunno.”

Molly forced a smile, “Men are idiots. Now… Where were we? Oh! The loo.”

Taylor couldn’t think of anything to say, so she nodded again. She was doing a lot of nodding. “That’d be nice.”

Molly opened a sterile coat and gloves, donning them quickly and turned back to Taylor. “Um, before I take you to the loo, I think, if you’d maybe let me take the jacket and… And your nylons?”

“Do I,” Taylor held on to the lapels of the jacket. “Just… Like…”

Molly helped her out of the jacket, folding it into one of the bags. “This isn’t yours,” she commented as she set the bag on the bench.

“Um,” Taylor furrowed her brow and glanced at the bag. “I think it could be Sherlock’s, maybe.”  

“No chance,” Molly shook her head vigorously. “That’s far too small. It must be John’s.” Molly tittered as she waited for Taylor to strip her nylons. She sealed them into the bag, “Couldn’t really wear these again anyway.”

Taylor smiled wryly. It was true; they were torn and bloodied, but so was her dress and her body for that matter. She followed Molly silently through a pair of doors and into what looked like a locker room.

“Um, toilets are through there,” Molly pointed. “Just, I know this sounds silly, but don’t wash your hands?” She gave an apologetic gesture with her whole body.

Taylor glanced down at her hands; soot and abrasions and blood decorated the creases and knuckles. She swallowed and nodded; the idea was a bit distasteful and the image macabre. As soon as she’d bolted the door to the stall, Taylor worked the sheath free from the back of her dress and rolled it into a small package. She hid it in just about the only place she could think would be safe and then relieved herself. It took more effort than she wanted to admit to keep from washing her hands, but as she turned to leave, her reflection in the mirror caught her attention.

_Sweet Jesus, Taylor_ , she thought, eying the face staring back at her. Her face was shockingly pale, even for her normally fair complexion; the dark circles under her eyes, the bruising and abrasions, the blood and soot standing out more against the pallor. It was no wonder they were kid-gloving her. She looked like a shell-shocked child. Her hair was a mess of dark, dirty curls, and any remnants of the makeup she’d worn to the gala was gone, her lower lip protruding and split. A large bruise raised the skin over her left temple, the hair beside it was matted with blood, and a small, compact laceration marked the crest of her right cheek. There were bruises on her arms and shoulders… and on her neck. Taylor clenched her jaw and it hurt. A wave of rage and pain washed through her body. She wanted to hit something. She needed to hit something. All of this over what? What was Priest playing at? This should have been Patrick’s project, Patrick’s planning; a job for someone who wouldn’t have fucked everything up and ended up in the wrong country without a network, without friends, without her gun and phone and fucking everything! She choked back an angry scream.

The door to the bathroom cracked open and Molly’s head appeared tentatively around the corner. “Bethany? Is everything ok?” The blankly curious expression on Molly’s face changed quickly into sad frown. “Oh.”

Taylor closed her eyes to the image in the mirror and turned toward the door. “I’m ok,” she said shakily.

Molly forced a smile that didn’t say she was happy and held the door open. “I um… I don’t always like what I have to do for my job.” She waited for Taylor to re-enter the main room. “But, I mean, at the end of the day, I hope. No, I know. It does good.” She donned the sterile coat and gloves again, straightened her shoulders resolutely and gave Taylor a nod. “I promise it’s worth it, Bethany.”

Rather than risk an emotional outburst, Taylor let Molly take charge. The slight woman was both gentle and efficient; and after collecting all of the clothing, she helped Taylor into a hospital gown. Taylor gave a small snort as she settled the gown on her shoulders. Molly glanced up from the bag she was holding. Taylor’s face flushed. “I uh… I just realized I’m pretty glad I wore underwear with that dress.” Taylor choked out an uncomfortable laugh.

Molly’s smile was both understanding and amused before her face folded into a serious expression. “That’s the easy part,” Molly said grimly. “We have to collect the evidence from your skin and photograph the injuries.”

Taylor nodded. She vividly remembered this part. The last time, she’d only been seventeen and she’d been on her own that time too. She kept her head down as the door opened and two more people entered. This was where they took pictures of everything from all angles and poked and prodded and asked questions that they thought you wouldn’t notice were being asked. Taylor slowly pulled her reserves together; it was going to take a lot of energy not to breakdown or bust up in this. When she looked up, Molly was watching her carefully. “Bethany, do you want me to ask John to come in?”

The suggestion was startling, but no more so than the fact that Taylor actually considered it for a moment. “No,” she said finally. “I’m sure he has stuff to do. And the evidence. And…”

 “John knows how to work with a crime scene.” Molly smiled. “But if you change your mind, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

Taylor forced a smile and nodded. “I’ll be ok…”

Molly shrugged in acceptance. “This is Sargent Donovan, she’s working with our Detective Inspector and the Edinburg office to coordinate the investigation.” Taylor eyed the woman that was introduced. She was darker, with tightly controlled curls and a dour expression on her face. At a glance, she was all business. And on a gut impression, she was thorough and detail oriented, shrewd, a good cop.

Taylor gave a quick nod and tentatively extended a hand. Donovan nearly jumped backward with her hands up and a wry half smile on her lips. “Nuh-uh. I’m not sterile.”

Taylor plastered an innocent surprise onto her face. “Oh.” She glanced down at her own hand and quickly tucked them onto her lap. So she was a good cop.

“I’m just here to keep up the chain of evidence and keep that moron, McAdams out. And call me Sally; it’s just easier.” Donovan pressed her lips together in what must have been an attempt at a friendly expression.

“The only thing that would be worse than McAdams is if they let Sherlock in here.”

Taylor tried to keep the emotions from her face as the second newcomer spoke. He was tall, maybe lanky, and had a voice that was a pitch higher and shriller than you’d expect from a man of his size. The smile that Molly cast his way was painfully forced. “This is Anderson, he’s one of our crime scene guys.”

The dismissive tone in Molly’s voice caused Anderson to bristle. “Crime scene guy?” his voice climbed an octave in his indignation. “I’ll have you know…”

Donovan cut him off with a heavy sigh. “Can we get a move on? I’m sure Ms. Taylor is growing cold.” While her words were harsh, there was an affectionate tone in her voice.

“Right, so,” Molly clapped her hands together. “Shall we? Bethany, if it’s too much, just let us know, and we’ll take a break.”

“I um… I can manage.” And she did manage. It wasn’t easy.

Samples were taken from her hair, from the patches of soot, from under her nails, from her palms. Donovan had asked a few casual questions along the way, mostly innocuous. The most sore part was when they took little bits of charred skin from around the burn. Anderson had voiced his displeasure at the medical attention John had paid to the area, claiming he should have known better. Molly silenced him with a simple question to make sure Bethany wasn’t in too much pain. Taylor had shaken her head, but it wasn’t comfortable. The worst part, the hardest part, the most painful and demeaning part was the photography. Taylor had hated it before and it was worse now. She was conscious of all the little marks on her skin, the scars, the damage done by her profession. Not to mention the idea of there being photographic evidence of her existence in the Yard brought on nausea.

By the time they were done, Taylor was physically exhausted. Molly hung behind as Anderson and Donovan left the room, lugging the box of evidence bags. Once the door was closed, Molly stripped her gloves and coat and set a gentle hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “Um, how are you holding up?”

Taylor glanced up and released a breath, nodding slowly.

 “Me too. Those two bicker like a married couple.” Molly gave a genuine smile. “I thought,” she paused thoughtfully. “Maybe before we ask John to come in, do you want a shower? The showers here can actually be hot and the pressure isn’t perfect, but I use them after some of the post-mortems. And believe me, that’s when you need a good shower.” Molly let out a nervous laugh.

Taylor gave her a genuine smile. The idea of a shower was fantastic. Get rid of the soot, the dust, the blood… “Please,” she said eagerly.

Molly supported her as she slipped from the exam table, the sudden change in position leaving her wobbly momentarily, then led her back into the locker room. “Oh, wait,” Molly turned and rummaged through one of the lockers, coming out with some bottles. “Here, I’ve shampoo and conditioner and soap.” She glanced down for a minute and smiled. “There are towels in the stalls, and I’m going to go find a pair of scrubs for you.”

Taylor felt her face color. She normally wasn’t so emotional, but somehow, the simple kindness was wearing her raw. “Thank you.”

“Will you, will you be alright if I leave you on your own for a minute or two?”

Taylor nodded. “I’ll be fine.” Once in the stalls, Taylor released a pent up sigh. She wasn’t used to people 24/7. She wasn’t used to being coddled, being minded. Then again, people let her down. At least she could be trusted to shower by herself. She took her time, suddsing up her hair, cleaning the day old dirt from her body, scrubbing out the abrasions she could tolerate, gingerly rinsing the burn under tepid water at the end of the shower. But when she finally stepped out, it had only been a few minutes, and her body was trembling from the heat and stress. She dried carefully and wrung out her hair before stepping outside of the shower stall. The locker room was empty, but Molly had left a set of scrubs on the bench, socks, a brush, toothbrush, and toothpaste perched atop them. Taylor shook her head; don’t start liking these people.

She had just managed to work the knots out of her hair when Molly knocked on the locker room door. Taylor tried not to laugh at the idea of knocking at your own locker room? The British were unfailingly polite. She made an accepting sound and Molly peaked in. “Everything alright?” Taylor nodded as she stooped to pull on the socks. “John said he could take care of the everything else if you’re up for it.”

Taylor glanced down at the backs of her hands; the wounds were oozing slightly after the shower. “I can’t really say no. Thank you, Doctor Hooper.”

Molly flushed and made a full body shrug as if to shake off the compliment. “Oh, it’s nothing really.”

Taylor followed her out of the locker room, the socks padding gently on the floor. She felt a bit guilty; Molly was actually pleasant, and she’d seen Taylor’s need to be left alone, even if only for a moment, a sensitivity that was increasingly rare in professionals. They left the small area they’d been in and made their way down a long empty corridor to another room. Molly lightly rapped on the door before pushing it open.

John was waiting in the room when they entered, seated at a desk pushed against the far wall. It looked like a regular GP’s office. He looked flustered when the door opened, but he rose from the chair and met her halfway across the room; and when he spoke to her, his voice was even and calm. “You managed a shower? That’s good. I mean… It’s nice you could get one here. And it’ll make it easier to,” he gestured to her arm. “You know.”

Molly twisted her hands together, “If you’re alright here, I’m going to get cracking on some of the evidence?”

John gave her a warm smile. “We’ll be fine, Molly. Ta.”

Taylor waited until Molly was at the door before managing to catch her attention, “Doctor Hooper?” Molly turned back with both brows raised. “Um, thanks for the socks.”

Molly blushed and waved as she ducked out of the room.

“She gave you socks?” John asked, a single brow raised.

Taylor’s smile was genuine. “Warm, dry socks.”

“Nothing better,” John gave her a quick nod. “Will we sort out the rest of the things?” Taylor’s agreement was slightly hesitant, but she followed his gesture to the table. It was a standard doctor’s exam table, cushioned leather, head angled at 45 degrees. She turned to push herself up, and winced as the pressure passed through her right arm. “Is that sore?” he pulled a rolling stool to the bedside and sat, looking up at her attentively.

Taylor nodded, “I just figured it was the burn.”

“Maybe,” John frowned thoughtfully. “What about your breathing, any trouble there?”

She shook her head. “I coughed out some soot in the shower, but my throat is more sore than my chest.”

“And your head?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Dull headache, but I’m not dizzy or anything.”

“And do you remember what happened?”

Taylor shook her head slowly. She remembered bits and pieces, snippets, blurred images and feelings, but she wouldn’t call it remembering. And whatever she did have, she’d rather keep to herself.

John sighed and wet his lips. “I think…” he paused and relaxed his face from the deeply furrowed brow to a gentle smile. “What I think we should do is this: I think I should give you brief physical, have a good listen to your lungs and heart; then I want to send you for an x-ray of your chest, your right arm, and your face, I want to make sure you don’t have any fractures; that being done, we’ll get all the cuts and scrapes cleaned up and I’ll look after the burn. How does that sound?”

“It sounds… thorough,” Taylor said softly.

“I know.” John rested a hand on her knee. “But given that we’re not entirely sure what happened to you, I’d rather err on the side of caution than miss something. Yeah?”

He was right. If she’d been at the farm, she’d have gotten a full physical, bloods, probably an MRI… They’d have checked her inside and out just to make sure she’d be functional. He’d suggested the bare minimum of safe. She nodded reluctantly, “Yeah.”

She subjected herself to a cursory, but attentive physical with a few pragmatic questions thrown in for good measure. John deemed her lungs ok, her back bruised, and her brain seemingly intact. He escorted her for the x-rays and walked back to the room with his hand resting on the small of her back. “No films?”

He snorted, “We are in the 21st century, even here.” She settled back on the exam table, her legs dangling over the edge as he looked up the x-rays on his computer screen. She watched his face as he scrutinized the images, his brows furrowed in concentration and lips pursed. There were small flickers of interest and dismissal before he cleared his throat and turned back towards her. “Nothing broken, as far as I can tell. The wrist is fine, zygoma’s intact, no skull fracture, and your lungs are clear.”

She smiled weakly, “That all sounds like good news; I sense a but coming.”

“Well,” he pulled an expression that looked like a flinch. “That just means that it’s time to clean up all the little cuts and scrapes.”

“Oh,” Taylor nodded. “Right.”

John wheeled his stool back to the bedside. “Look, we’ll start with the easy ones first, eh?” He collected packs and bandages, piling them on a silver trolley and washed his hands before donning gloves. When he returned to the bedside, he perched rather sat on his stool and raised a brow. “Knees first?”

Taylor tugged the scrub bottoms up over her knees and wrinkled her nose. “They’re just bruised and skinned, I think.”

John pulled a spray can from his table and shook it. “Looks like it. I might put a non-adhesive on them for the moment, just until they scab over themselves.” He popped the top off of the can and sprayed both of her knees; Taylor flinched. “Is that sore?”

She let out a self-conscious laugh, “No, actually. I’m just conditioned to think that’s gonna sting.”

“I promise I’ll warn you,” he smiled warmly and wiped the foamy spray off with a clean gauze pad. Taylor slowly started to relax as he inspected the abrasions, his calm and gentle demeanor putting her more at ease. After he’d poked at her knees, clearing bits of dirt and gravel, he grabbed another spray can and, with slightly more focus, he sprayed her knees. “Well there’s that done,” he murmured.

“NewSkin?”

“Same thing, different brand.” He capped the bottle and returned it to the tray. “Now,” he raised his stool with a foot pedal. “Let’s deal with your cheek.” His hands were gentle as he tilted her chin from side to side. His gaze darkened as he noted the bruises on her neck. “I think I know why your throat is sore,” he muttered. Taylor swallowed but didn’t trust herself to answer. He dipped fresh gauze into a pink liquid and carefully cleaned the lac on her right cheek. “I don’t think it’s worth closing this one. It’s too old to really glue and not big enough to warrant stitches.”

Taylor had seen the lac. She knew there wasn’t much to do for it. Everything around it was too swollen to go near, anyway. Her head started to throb with a dull pounding and she pushed it aside; it was only going to get worse when he dealt with the mess on her temple anyway. “Ok.”

“This other one,” he cupped her face between his gloved palms as he turned her head to the right. Taylor winced as the muscles in her neck stretched, pulling at the bruises. He picked up clean gauze and started to clean the wound, “There may be something said for gluing this.” As kind as he was being, it was sore as hell when he pulled the edges of skin together; she could feel the fresh blood begin to ooze. She flinched and it did nothing for her headache. The cool, damp gauze pressed against her temple and she closed her eyes momentarily. “I was a bit worried you’d have a fracture under this,” John said.

Taylor recognized the oddly fading sound to his voice, distant and muffled. “I’ve been told I’ve a thick skull,” she focused hard to keep from slurring her words.

“Clearly,” he chuckled. “You were hit pretty hard.” He pressed a dry piece of gauze against the wound.

“You should see the other guy,” she muttered out of habit.

“The ground?” he raised a brow.

“I’d be happier to know if you’re right.” She pressed her eyes shut as he pinched the skin together and glued it. By the time he took his hand away, her head was swimming.

John changed his gloves. “Will I take a look at your hands?”

Taylor felt a cold sweat break out across her skin, but acquiesced, lifting her hands slightly against the tremor that coursed through them. He was talking again; she could only tell, because his lips were moving; everything garbled and her vision swam. She swallowed down the sense of impending sick and blinked rapidly, trying to bring his face back into focus.

“Bethany?” his palm was warm against her cheek. “Bethany,” he called again.

Her tongue felt thick when she tried to speak, and she was breathing heavily. “Yeah?” She furrowed her brow, a strange tingling sensation started in her fingers. “Um…”

John watched her face intently for a moment, frowning as she stumbled over her words. Her body wobbled and he was on his feet before she could tip forward from where she sat. His arm slid under her knees and he repositioned her, recumbent against the elevated head of the exam table. “Bethany, what’s wrong?” He had a small pen torch in his hand, checking her pupils, his other hand still firm against her cheek. “Jesus, you’re freezing.” His fingers found her pulse. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

She nodded sluggishly. “I,” she shook her head in an attempt to focus herself. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” she spat out quickly, before taking a few sharp, shallow breaths. “I,” she clenched her jaw against a wave of nausea. “I’ve never… This is new.”

An expression of desperate concern crossed his face, but vanished as she blinked again; replaced with the pragmatic look of calm calculation. It was as if she could see the gears churn in his head, picking up speed, running through a differential, and his eyes narrowed slightly as if he’d made a decision. “When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”

Taylor blinked a few times, “What?”

He captured her face between his palms. “Eat, Bethany. When did you last eat?”

“I um…” She looked at him blankly and swallowed. “I had some coffee…”

“Coffee isn’t food. When did you have food? Did you get any dinner at the Gala?”

“Dinner?” She blinked at the question. “We left before…”

“Any of the hor d’oeuvres?”

“Uh… I don’t… N-no,” she rubbed her forehead, the headache getting worse.

“Lunch?”

“I was doing a smithing demonstration.”

“Breakfast?”

“Um…” she shook her head again. “Maybe coffee and half a scone?”

“In thirty-some-odd hours? All you’ve had is half a scone?” John kept a steady hand on her shoulder while twisting to grab something off the shelf. Taylor flinched as the small lancet punctured her fingertip, only wondering after the fact where it’d appeared from. There was a quick series of beeps as John held a small piece of cotton to the recently injured finger. He swore under his breath and spun away, returning with a juice box. “Drink,” he said firmly.

She hated how badly her hands were shaking. It wasn’t like her. Even when injured, she was never this tremulous. She took a small sip, feeling the juice running all the way down to her stomach. “Apple?” she wrinkled her nose.

“Drink it,” he repeated. “All of it, slowly.” Taylor nodded, taking another small sip, fighting the nausea she felt building in her gut. Her breathing seemed a little easier as she worked her way through the juice. “Your blood sugar was low,” he said after a few minutes watching her. “Too low, actually. The fact that you hadn’t eaten anything for,” he glanced at his watch and snorted. “Maybe thirty-six hours, coupled with the trauma to your body must have driven your sugars down and taxed whatever resources you had stored.”

Taylor sighed, the tremors nearly gone from her hands and John’s face in better focus. “That’s really never happened to me before.” It had been one of the most unsettling sensations… She finished the juice.

“Feeling better?” John rested a hand on her shoulder again, watching her eyes. “You look a touch better.” Taylor nodded. She was feeling more normal. “I want to check your sugars again, if that’s ok?”

“Does apple juice tend to work that quickly?”

“You’re not slurring your speech anymore and there’s some colour back in your cheeks. The mydriasis is gone and you aren’t diaphoretic. I’d say it’s working.” His mouth quirked into a smile as he took the empty juice box from her hand.

“And you have a habit of keeping juice boxes in your… your office?” she asked, her humor improving piece wise with her return to normal. “Ow!” She snapped her hand back in offense.

One of his brows shot up. “That is what you are going to complain about?”

She scowled. “You stabbed me again.”

He glanced at the glucometer as it beeped and he gave an approving half smile. “Since I’ve met you, you’ve been hit, cut, burned, nearly blown-up three times, shot at, and you’re going to complain because I pricked your finger to check your blood sugar?” John heaved a sigh. “Worst patient ever.”

Taylor chuckled, “When you put it that way…”

“Makes you seem a bit accident prone,” he finished.

“Makes it seem like you’re a dangerous person to be around,” she corrected.

Something flickered darkly across his face, but was gone in a flash. John pursed his lips and nodded, “You could look at it that way.”

“But?”

He grinned, “But I’m the one with the needles.”

Taylor snorted. She felt better. She was relaxing, she was feeling more comfortable, she… Oh shit. She mentally kicked herself for the slip. She shouldn’t be calm or relaxed, she should… still be scared? Fuck. She was slipping. And she was so goddamned tired. She let the humor fall from her face. “Yeah,” she said softly.

“Alright,” he clapped his hands. “Will we finish up?” She gave a little nod, and slowly tried to rein in her emotions. She flinched once or twice as John was cleaning the burn, but whatever cream he applied as he finished immediately cooled and numbed the pain. He gave her knuckles a quick clean and dressed them with the same spray as her knees. “All patched up,” he pulled back and gave her a genuine smile.

“Thank you.” Tentatively, she smiled back. “So… um… What happens now?”

John bobbed his head, “Well, I should think we can get you back to the flat soon-“

He was cut off mid-sentence with a sharp rap on the door. Sherlock’s head poked in. “John,” he said with a slight tip of his head. And then he was gone. Taylor blinked. This was the man that Priest wanted? Priest was fucked in the head. Maybe, and it was a big maybe, Patrick could handle him, but Priest was an idiot to think anything of the sort.

“Sherlock?” John stared at the closed door and gave a long-suffering sigh. The annoyance on his face dissolved in the blink of an eye as he smirked and shook his head. He stood and shucked his gloves onto the tray. “I’ve been summoned,” he grinned, pushing the tray into the corner of the room and washing his hands again. He turned back and paused in the middle of the room. “Look, I’d better go keep him out of trouble. Are you going to be alright if I leave you here?”

She thought about it. She actually thought about it, then mentally kicked herself for being an idiot, then silently berated herself for forgetting her legend.

John took her silence to be uncertainty. “I’ll send Molly over to keep you company?” Taylor nodded. Ok, not alone, not necessarily unsafe, casual conversation; she could do that. “Maybe get some food?” he pushed. She nodded again. “I won’t be long,” he gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and ducked out the door.

Taylor swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, giving herself a few moments to stabilize. She’d only just gotten on her feet when there was a soft rap on the door. Molly crept into the room, a large shopping bag in tow. “Hi, Bethany,” she chirped. “Everything… ok?”


	3. Deceptively Obvious Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Video doesn't lie... But sometimes our allies do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of unnecessary anxiety and low confidence about posting this next chapter. Some of it is the normal I get about my writing, some of it was with the completion of S3... The revelation of Mary being ex-CIA made me cringe (totally for the sake of my fic). But after looking at it, I have SO MUCH written for this (like... 80 pages already... Not posted, but coming). I figure, people will take it or leave it as it is. And once I've finished with this fic, I'm going to post my 2 other stories about Taylor (she isn't new in this for me, she has a massive story to go with her character). But in the mean time, I give you Chapter 3. Enjoy.

John caught sight of Sherlock at the far end of the corridor and broke into a slight jog to catch up to the man’s long, swift strides. “What’s going on?” he asked, reaching Sherlock, falling in step at his side.

“Hm?” Sherlock cast a sidelong glance. “Oh, I’m about to go talk some sense into Lestrade; I thought you’d like to be there.”

John’s stride didn’t falter, but his eyes flicked nervously up toward Sherlock. “Talk some sense?”

Sherlock broke into a half smile, his eyes lighting up with cold mischief. “Haven’t you heard? He has forbidden us return to Edinburgh.”

John’s brow furrowed and he wet his lips. “I’m not sure he can actually do that, but he must have good reason.”

Sherlock’s dark laugh echoed in the corridor. “You’re unfailingly faith in him is temerariously quaint. If not Lestrade, I’m sure Mycroft would be here to forbid it as well. Or he’d just ground our flight, derail our train, steal my car.” Sherlock broke his stride to hold the door open for John.

John grabbed his upper arm to garner his full attention. “It wouldn’t have to be faith if you’d simply tell me what’s going on!” he hissed.

Sherlock ushered him through the door and waited for it to close before facing John. “Two days ago, a military transmission was intercepted that detailed a supply of nuclear materials that has come into possession of a hostile regime through an adscititous route.”

“Who intercepted it?”

“A not so incompetent MOD man, but that’s irrelevant.”

“How’d you find out about it?”

“Even more irrelevant! John, don’t be dim.” Sherlock snapped dismissively.

John shot him a look from beneath his brows. “Fine, where did it come from?”

“Palestinian intelligence.” Sherlock craned his neck forward with a slight smirk. “And to whom do you think it was sent?”

John sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know, Sherlock. It could have been sent to anyone.”

Sherlock gave an impatient huff. “Think, John. You were over there killing people for this country; you should at least have a concept of these things.” John clenched his jaw and glared at Sherlock. Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Hypothetically, if agents in Iran passed nuclear plans onto a terror group in Syria that recently spread into Egypt, what would happen?”

John shifted from one foot to the other. “Hypothetically?” he raised a brow. “Hypothetically, it could upset the current cease-fire, there’d be more riots, civil war, up the military numbers in the area, economic sanctions, practically any number of bad things.”

“And what if the information of that transfer were to be discovered by one of our allies?” Sherlock hummed.

John practically groaned. “Depends on which ally. Israel… America… There could be a preemptive strike… I would have a career of pulling shrapnel out of young people well into my eighties.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock straightened to his full height, his back ramrod straight.

John shook his head. “But there must be hundreds of plots like this that come to light daily. What makes this one any different?”

Sherlock smiled, an expression both of pride in John’s question and smug knowledge. “It’s not real.”

“What’s not real?” John frowned.

“There is no movement of material. The transmission is wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“False. Designed to be intercepted. Created to cause an escalation of military action.”

“But, if it’s been intercepted by the MOD, then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that it can’t be the only one.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “And if one isn’t enough, they’ll keep sending them until Mossad or the CIA stumble across one.”

“What if…” John licked his lips anxiously. “What if they decided not to send another?”

“Another what?”

“Another message, transmission, code thing, Sherlock. What if they meant for the MOD to get the message, and not reveal it?” John sucked a breath in through his nose and frowned, contemplating the fallout for a moment.

“And then… Oh!” Sherlock’s face dropped in amazement. “Oh, John! That’s brilliant!” Sherlock spun around on his heel.

“What is?” John asked as Sherlock started back down the corridor. “Wait,” he called, spinning to catch up again. “What does any of this have to do with Edinburgh?”

Sherlock half-turned as he continued to stride down the hall. “Military Tattoo,” he grinned.

 

~o~

 

Taylor trailed after Molly on the way to the canteen, the new shoes feeling rigid on her feet. In fact, all of the clothes felt stiff. But that’s what you get wearing brand new, store bought clothes. At least they were her size; perfectly her size. She didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock had known her size, but her style… Her legend’s style and her own personal style… Jesus, that was off-putting. Molly had simply shrugged and said, “That’s Sherlock for you.” At least she had clean clothes, and enough clothes to be warm.

The canteen was empty when they reached it, and Molly left Taylor in one of the booths to drop by the vending machines. She returned with sodas, crisps, and pre-made sandwiches. “Sorry,” she piled the food on table between them. “Kitchen closes early on a Sunday, so there’s no hot meal left.”

Taylor shook her head and retrieved one of the cans, “This is perfect. I don’t think I could eat much right now.” The first sip tasted a little too sweet going down, but the bubbles and sugar actually calmed her stomach.

Molly pulled open a bag of crisps and nearly sent the entire contents of the foil bag flying. She jumped slightly then seemed to settle, all of her motion complicated by compensatory movements in her opposite limbs. The excess action only dissipated when she popped a crisp in her mouth and started chewing. About three crisps in, Molly shook her head as if remembering something urgent and slid a sandwich to Taylor. “Here, you should eat. John will kill me if you don’t.”

Taylor snorted, “I doubt it.” It made Molly smile, but the nervous movement didn’t dissipate until Taylor pulled the package open and tore off a small bite.

“So,” Molly drew out the sound on the ‘o,’ either a practiced mannerism or dead evidence of her social awkwardness. “How? How’d you end up with Sherlock?”

Taylor winced and shook her head. “I uh… I don’t really remember.”

“Oh,” Molly gave a few more nods than necessary.

Taylor made a vague gesture to the bruises on the side of her head. “I’m pretty fuzzy about most of it.”

“You seem,” Molly took a swig of her soda. “To be doing ok.”

“I’m…” Taylor flinched inwardly. She wanted to lie, but thought better of it. “I’m just trying to keep from freaking out. I don’t know what else I could do right now.” Molly made an accepting noise and they spent a few minutes eating in respectful silence. Taylor shredded her sandwich into small pieces, eating bits as they struck her fancy, but mostly stuck to the soda. Curiosity began to get the better of her, and she studied Molly. She was an odd thing, squirrely, maybe flighty, and she looked like she’d gotten dressed in the dark. But she was genuinely pretty, sincere, thorough when working. “Can I ask you a question, Dr. Hooper?”

Molly twitched. “Um… Ok. Yeah. Yes. Sure.”

“Are you Doctor Hooper as in a doctor who went to med school and then became a pathologist, doctor? Or Doctor Hooper as in a doctor who went and got a PhD in something I couldn’t understand and works in the ME’s office for some reason now, doctor?”

Molly tittered. “You know, no one really ever asks me that.”

The canteen door swung open with a creak and a bang and Taylor’s head shot up. Molly swiveled in her seat and turned to see McAdams saunter in, laptop in hand. “Ladies,” he grinned. “I’ve been searchin’ high and low for ye.”

Molly darted out of the booth and stood between McAdams and the table. Her shoulders weren’t straight and she’d lost some of the bluster she’d had in the lab, but she crossed her arms and managed to look angry. “I thought Detective Inspector Lestrade asked you to stay in the office.”

“I got hungry.” He gave her a smile that even on his face was more of a snarl. “And look,” he raised a brow at Taylor. “Company!”

Taylor furrowed her brow and pushed back in the booth, watching McAdams warily. She knew a predatory look when she saw one, and this guy was wearing one in spades. He set a heavy hand on Molly’s shoulder and gave a push, knocking her off balance and into the table.

McAdams slid into the booth across from Taylor and eyed her up and down. “We weren’t properly introduced last time. I’m Dun McAdams, I’m the DI from Edinburgh.” Taylor noted that he didn’t offer his hand to shake. “Don’t you clean up nicely?”

She masked her suspicion with a look of unease and confusion. “I had a shower,” she whispered.

“Well you look lovely,” he purred. This time his smile was less creepy, but Taylor knew better than to fall for the artificial chagrin.

She dropped her gaze to the food she was shredding slowly as Molly cautiously sat to Taylor’s left. “I don’t really feel lovely,” she murmured in return.

“No,” he shook his head. “If you’re feeling those bruises, I don’t think you could.” Taylor frowned, but simply shook her head. “How’d ye get so rough?”

She sighed and took a small sip of her soda, keeping her eyes downcast. “I dunno.”

“Do you want to know?”

That had her attention. What did he mean by that? Taylor glanced up and gave him a glassy and nervous look. She gingerly ran a finger across one of her abraded knuckles. “I’m not really sure that’s in the cards tonight,” she whispered and dropped her gaze. “I don’t really remember it.”

“We had a camera,” he stated flatly.

Taylor tore another small piece of bread from her sandwich and nodded slowly. She didn’t like where this was going. From the corner of her eye, she saw Molly pull her mobile from her pocket and furiously send a text before slipping the phone back into her cardigan. Clearly, Molly was as annoyed as she was. McAdams was still watching her, so Taylor stopped nodding and shook her head. “Um. Ok?”

“In the tent.” McAdams raised a brow, his mouth pulling back into something of a half-smile. “We do take the Tattoo seriously, and that gala had a small number of VIPs.”

Taylor shook her head again, “I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re on it.” He stood, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and stared down at her.

Taylor racked her brain, trying to come up with anything that occurred in the tent that could be construed as criminal, as suspect. She came up blank. “Wouldn’t everyone be on the camera? I mean, most of us were in the tent.”

“I thought you didn’t remember what happened,” he leaned down. “Or did you lie about that too?”

Well, if he was going to be rude about it, she had no problem making him feel like a dick. Taylor’s eyes went wide. “L-lie?” she squeaked.

“You told DI Lestrade, and you just told me that you couldn’t remember the evening,” he accused.

Taylor shook her head frantically. “I haven’t even spoken to the DI. I… I think I told John… Maybe… I…”

“So you do remember?”

“That’s enough!” Molly huffed, pushing to rise from booth.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Hooper.” McAdams set the laptop on the table, opening the old brick of a machine. “You would probably do to see this too.”

“Doctor,” Molly corrected with an angry puff as she settled back in the booth.

“Whatever floats your boat, sweetheart,” he winked at Molly and turned back to Taylor, tilting her face up to meet his gaze with a single finger beneath her chin.

Taylor swallowed and pulled away. “I don’t remember what happened,” she pled. “I mean, I remember some things. Little things. I remember my exhibition. I remember… Getting back to the Castle after changing. I… I remember having a glass of wine, I think.” She pressed her eyes shut for a moment. “But that’s all!”

“Why don’t we see if we can fill in the gaps then, shall we?” He flicked the laptop on and the screen glowed to life. “It’s not the best camera. Live feed, but only saving images on a five second loop.”

Molly made a sound of disgust.

“Hey, not all of us have the funding of the palace behind us,” McAdam snapped, starting the feed from the saved file. “Hang on, there’s a lot of nonsense at the beginning.”

Taylor stared at the flickering, grainy image. She knew exactly where that camera had been positioned from the view, but damned if she knew it was there. Fuck Priest! She should have been told if there was surveillance. She would have… Maybe… Differently… Ugh! Now her head was hurting.

“This is where it starts to get interesting,” McAdams interrupted her train of thought. “It looks like everyone is gone, but then…” She knew it was coming, but there she was, frozen on the screen, mid stride, running into the tent. “Tah-Dah!” McAdams clapped his hands together, and Taylor jumped slightly. “You show up. But…” The clip changed again, her back to the camera, and her attacker in at the entrance. “But you’re not alone,” McAdams leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Who…” she started to ask, recognizing the shadowed outline of her assailant. The picture quality was poor and the face completely in darkness. They’d never get an ID on that shot. She was both relieved and annoyed. What’s the bloody point of a security camera if it can’t see a face?

“Do you recognize him?” McAdams asked bluntly.

Taylor shook her head slowly. “N-no,” she lied. She knew what his face looked like, but she still hadn’t had the chance to try and ID him. “But I… I can’t see his face in this.” She lifted a finger as if to point at the man and the image shifted. McAdams sighed as the screen changed to the next shot: nothing but blur, not static, blur. “What happened?”

McAdams tapped the time stamp. “Explosion.”

The image shifted, the blur gone, but the angle different. The support pole had partially collapsed. Taylor tilted her head slightly to right the image.

Oh Lord, she thought. They had a shot of the man trying to strangle her. She let out a small gasp, her hand rising to her neck. From the snapshot, she’d been damn lucky. He’d put her in more than a headlock; he was aiming to break her neck. No wonder she had bruises, and if she hadn’t shaken him as quickly, she’d probably be dead. Even more frustrating, his face was still turned away from the camera. No face. No ID. God fucking damnit.

McAdams was watching her face, trying to gauge her reaction, and Taylor did her best to keep from disappointing as she stared, open-mouthed at the image. It shifted again; she was on her hands and knees, her attacker on the ground. “Let me guess, you took karate as a kid,” McAdams said wryly.

Taylor blinked. “Self-defense in college,” she said softly.

“Oh!” Molly blurted out as the screen changed. Taylor glanced back at the screen and felt the blood drain from her face. Face still obscured by the shadows, the Yard had a fantastic shot of her getting smacked in the head with a rock. A small pit of rage boiled in her stomach, and rather than lashing out, she let it build and spill with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me you still don’t remember what happened,” McAdams prodded.

Taylor refused to take her eyes from the screen as tears began to track down her cheeks. What a fucking moron. Anyone getting hit that hard would have trouble remembering the event. Showing her a picture of it wouldn’t bring it back any faster. The screen changed again, the camera angle dropping to ground level as the support pole collapsed with the final explosion. Holy shit, she thought, the Yard has a picture of her unconscious and bleeding on the ground… If the Farm got their hands on the picture she’d be listed as MIA or KIA or… Oh God, Priest was going to murder her. And a normal person? She let out an odd choked up sob as the screen went blank again.

One of Molly’s hands came to rest gingerly against Taylor’s shoulder. “Bethany?”

McAdams snapped his fingers in front of her face, “Hey. I asked you a question.” No you didn’t.

Taylor sucked in a shuddering breath. “He, he…” She let her body tremble, starting with her shoulders and letting it spread. He wanted to see that she was who she claimed to be? Fine. She started to hyperventilate. “I…” Molly wrapped a small, protective arm around her, glaring at McAdams and turning her away from him.

DI Lestrade stormed through the door and froze, taking in the scene with a scowl. “What the bloody hell is going on here?” he barked, bracing himself with his hands on his hips. “Is she? Did you make that poor girl cry?”

“Ach, now. We were only having a wee chat.” McAdams uncrossed his arms and pressed the laptop shut.

“A _wee_ chat?” Greg demanded, storming across the room. “Do you people have any sense of protocol up in Edinburgh? It’s like running a crèche in here!” He jabbed a finger at McAdams’ chest. “She is a witness. This is not how you take a statement!”

McAdams held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Ach, fine. Don’t get yer knickers in a wad.” He scooped up the laptop and shot Lestrade what was supposed to be a roguish smile. “It gets results, ye know.”

“Get out!” Greg snapped. He continued to glare as McAdams ambled out the door. Once he was gone, Lestrade shook his head angrily. “Twat.” He glanced down at Molly and Taylor and grunted out a sigh. “Ms. Taylor, I have to apologize for his behavior.”

Taylor sniffed loudly and eased herself from Molly’s shoulder. It had been a good show, and she’d cried enough to stain her face. She gave Lestrade a watery and apologetic half smile. “I – I guess, I mean… At least I know,” she managed.

“Are you two ok if I leave you here? I need to deal with that Sweaty…” He managed to reign in his anger slightly. “Molly?”

Molly nodded, “We’ll be fine.”

 

~o~

 

Sherlock paced angrily, tension in every movement, his spine arched in a taut line. His gestures were distracted, dramatic, bombastic, and the tone of his voice deep and sharp. But from all that John could tell, it was one elaborate insult aimed at the DI.

“Sherlock,” he muttered, “take a break.”

Sherlock rounded on John and glared at him. John adjusted his shoulders, but refused to flinch. “Aren’t you even remotely curious, John?”

He made a face. “Curious, yes. Death wish, no.”

Sherlock threw his arms up in an exasperated sigh. “It’s not a death wish.” He spun back to Lestrade. “You must know someone in Edinburgh that owes you a favour. I just want ten minutes at the Castle. And after you’ve kept us waiting here so long, it’s the least you can do.”

“It’s like I’m dealing with toddlers,” Lestrade muttered to no one in particular. “Between you and McAdams,” he focused on Sherlock with a frown and stopped.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “That oaf is dimmer than someone fresh from the academy. And if you so much as think of drawing a parallel between what I do and…”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Lestrade shook a finger at Sherlock. “If you make that poor girl cry too, I’ll leave you with McAdams and go on holiday.”

“He made her cry?” John interrupted. When Greg winced slightly, John crossed his arms. “When?”

The corner of Lestrade’s mouth pulled back in an expression of regret rather than amusement. “He decided to show her a play-by-play of how she ended up unconscious and bleeding on the ground. It upset her.”

“What?” the question came simultaneously from Sherlock and John.

This time, Greg grimaced outright before frowning at Sherlock. “He hadn’t bothered to show me yet either, so before you rush off and bash my skull in, I’m as pissed as you are.”

“We need to see it. _I_ need to see it,” Sherlock insisted.

John spoke over him, “Is she alright? Where is she?”

Greg dropped his head back over the back of the chair with a groan before righting himself to address them both. “You and me both, Sherlock. And as soon as I get my hands on him, I’ll give you a call; we can strangle him together. And John, I left her in the canteen with Molly. They said they’d be fine.”

“Where is he?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in a predatory fashion.

“If I knew, you’d be the last person I’d tell.” Lestrade stood and rested his hands on his hips. “I’ll call you when I find him. In the mean time, I need to get back to the Yard.”

“I’ll go with you.” Sherlock stood and swept his coat on.

“Sherlock,” John objected.

“Oh, go be with your patient, John,” Sherlock hissed as he wrapped his scarf with a flourish. “I’m of better service at the Yard.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and John frowned at him. “She’s our client by default. And we need to come up with something better than stashing her at our flat.”

“We’re working on bringing her things down from Edinburgh,” Lestrade interrupted. “But as far as I’ve heard, there’s no wallet, no passport either. Besides, and call me crazy, but I feel like she’s safer in Baker Street than in a hotel on her own.”

John’s head pulled back as his brow creased, a look of alarm on his face. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Have you met us?” John glanced incredulously at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug, “Safety in numbers? Is that not how the old adage goes?”

John frowned. “No shit.”

“I feel better if you’ll be nearby rather than let McAdams take another crack at her,” Lestrade cuffed John’s shoulder on his way out the door.

“Don’t wait up,” Sherlock grinned, hot on Greg’s heels.

John tipped his head to the side, mouth slightly agape in exasperation, watching the two head down the hallway, bickering. Finally, he heaved a sigh and shook his head. “No. No, that’s fine. I don’t mind. It’s very normal for me to bring a young, female, injured client home. This is one hundred percent above board. No chance of my medical license being threatened. It won’t look strange at all. Thanks, Sherlock.”

John shook head again and pulled his shoulders back. “Right, then.” He headed down toward the canteen. He released a heavy sigh and pushed the door open. “Molly, I think-“ he pulled up short at the glare he received from Molly. Molly was sitting at the end of one of the benches, Taylor’s head cradled in her lap. “Sorry,” he whispered, catching the door to close it noiselessly. He squatted down in front of the women and looked up at Molly. “She sleeping?”

Molly nodded. “She was so tired, and who can blame her.”

John furrowed his brow, “Where did you find those clothes?”

“Sherlock bought them,” she said simply. “He didn’t think it’d be fair to take all her clothes and leave her in the hospital gown.”

The corner of John’s mouth briefly pulled back into a smile. “Ah.”

“He can be so decent sometimes. And then sometimes, it’s like people are just an afterthought to him.” Molly gave John a sad smile. “Do you ever wonder what it is that makes him notice?”

He sighed, “If you ever figure it out, let me know.”

“What happened? To Bethany, I mean. I saw the video, but… What is going on?”

“Whatever it is, it has Sherlock’s interest. And you know him; like a dog with a bone. I suspect we’ll know soon enough.” John glanced at the sleeping woman’s face. It looked younger, more relaxed in sleep, but the youth contrasted sharply with the dark bruises on her cheek and forehead. “Tell me about McAdams.”

Molly scowled. “He’s a complete git.”

John grinned. “I suspected as much.” He waited patiently for Molly to continue.

“He’s heavy handed. Probably not as stupid as he looks, but he’s got a mean streak in him.” Molly cast her eyes down at Bethany. “I know he was trying to get a statement of sorts, but what he did was cruel. Whether or not she could remember what had happened, that’s not the way you find out. It’s just not.”

John nodded. “So he just showed up and turned on the… the video?”

Molly fidgeted. “I think he was trying to get a rise out of Bethany, maybe. Or get a read on her. But he opened his laptop and showed her the freeze frames from the tent. It wasn’t pretty.”

John gave another nod. “And he made her cry?”

“Not at first, not really.”  Molly shrugged. “I mean, she was surprised, a bit horrified, but she didn’t start sobbing until he’d shown her the whole thing. It was… overwhelming, I think.”

John let out a long breath. “What an arsehole.”

Molly gave a slight laugh. “You’re going to have to wake her up, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, “I think having woken up in a different country today, it’d be a bit unfair moving her again while she’s asleep.”

Molly gave a soft sigh. “I suppose you’re right.”

 

~o~

 

Lestrade dropped into his desk chair with a sigh as Sherlock followed him into the office. “Are you still following me?”

Sherlock smirked as he took off his scarf. “Are you still refusing to show me the video?”

“Look,” Lestrade sat forward in his chair. “I will let you know once I have it. I clearly haven’t found it on my way back here. So clear off, will ya?”

Sherlock took the seat opposite him and gave a cold smile. “I can wait.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice dropped into one of warning, one that Sherlock only regarded as a scolding but powerless teacher voice.

“It won’t be long,” Sherlock continued, stretching his fingers and resting his palms on the arms of the chair. “I would like to be here when…” he trailed off, another smile stretching across his face.

“When what?” Lestrade demanded, glaring at him.

“Sir,” Donovan poked her head in the office, the sight of Sherlock giving her pause.

“Spit it out,” Lestrade barked. He was nearly at the end of his tether now. How long was it before he could go home? Not that he had anyone waiting there for him anymore. God he needed a cigarette.

“Uh, you wanted to know when McAdams reappeared.” She bobbed her head toward the bank of elevators. “He just did.”

Lestrade winced. “Great. Send him in here. Now.”

Sherlock’s half smile spread into a feral grin and he steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“And you,” Lestrade poked a finger at Sherlock. “You will sit there and mind your tongue. I have had enough today, do you understand?”

Sherlock’s smile twitched and dropped into one more socially acceptable. “Of course.”

Greg frowned. He couldn’t quite believe Sherlock’s easy acquiescence, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to McAdams as he entered the room and his frown deepened. “Sit.”

McAdams dropped into the chair and flashed Lestrade a broad smile. “Sir.”

“Don’t you ‘Sir’ me,” Lestrade barked.

“Aw c’mon.” McAdams held his palms up with a chuckle. “I’m just doing my job. There’s a lot of sitting on hands here and I can’t stand it.”

“You’ll stand it, because that’s what you’re told,” Lestrade crossed his arms.

McAdams grinned again. “For someone that’s harboring a witness, you’re awfully bossy.”

“Harboring?” Lestrade’s voice grew in volume. “You have some nerve.”

“You send two kidnapping thugs up to my show to rob an eyewitness; I’m only saying…”

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying,” Lestrade interrupted. “You’re saying that you think it’s appropriate protocol corner an assault victim and question her by exposing her to the trauma all over again? Hm?”

McAdams rolled his eyes, “I only wanted to see what she could remember.”

Lestrade flicked his pen between his first two fingers like a cigarette. “In which you made her cry, yes?”

McAdams gave a guilty nod.

“And how is that, in any way helpful?!”

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh and both men turned to glare. “What?” he asked innocently.

“Spit it out,” Lestrade frowned again. He was going to regret letting Sherlock stay in the room. Why oh why did he keep doing that? Oh right, because it was Sherlock.

The corner of his mouth flicked up in a smirk that only Lestrade could see, and then Sherlock twisted to face McAdams and took in a deep breath. “You’re new to special branch, recently promoted from an ordinary inspector to detective inspector, but not because it suited your superiors. You work hard, but aren’t used to the erratic hours from coming off of shift work. It’s cost you two… no three short term relationships and a goldfish. You make enough money to maintain a decent lifestyle, but you don’t,” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Not from alimony, but because of your little sister, still in university. Possibly in Edinburgh, but more likely back home in Glasgow. You’re unorthodox behavior is mostly bravado to keep up appearances, reassure the highborn that a man from the southside is nothing like those raised in prosperity.” Sherlock pressed a fake smile and narrowed his eyes. “Did I miss anything?”

McAdam’s mouth hung open in amazement or annoyance for a moment. “W-whu? What the hell?” He blew out a breath and turned to Lestrade. “Who the hell is this guy?”

Lestrade dropped his head into his palm with a sigh. The smile on Sherlock’s face grew colder, “Kidnapping thug number one. Pleasure.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned.

McAdams crossed his arms and blew out his cheeks. “You people are mad here.”

“I want the video,” Lestrade said firmly.

“And I want you to talk me through it,” Sherlock purred.


End file.
